


Sisters True

by paradiamond



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU, F/F, Gen, The Night's Watch as a female organization
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-06
Updated: 2017-09-09
Packaged: 2018-03-29 06:20:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3885628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paradiamond/pseuds/paradiamond
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Sisterhood of the Night’s Watch is sworn to protect the realm. Lord Commander Obara Sand, 978th leader of the Watch, finds herself tested by a difficult situation at the Wall. But a new Sister could provide some opportunities.</p><p>Meanwhile, for many women in Westeros the Watch can mean the difference between freedom and bondage. The Wall can be the barrier between life and death. And the world is changing once again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Lord Commander

They hung from the Wall on cords and hooks, balancing tools and materials as they worked in tandem. At the bottom, three warmly dressed women stood holding the safety ropes, grim faced and focused. They were silent to a one as the builders attended to their task. To do any kind of work on the Wall’s surface was dangerous at best of times and deadly at worst. 

Though there on official business, Lord Commander Obara Sand took a moment to watch their progress, reflecting on the savage beauty of the structure she had come to know and revere as well as she ever knew her desert home of years long passed. Before she left, her sisters by blood had tried to dissuade her with horror stories of the killer cold. They said she would reach the borders of the North and quail at the sight of snow. They said she would complete the training like a true warrior but decline to take the vows after all, because her heart would always belong to Dorne. 

Smirking, Obara made her way over to the small group, signaling to a builder waiting at the base to follow her. She took care to make enough noise walking to alert the rope-holders to her presence. The last thing they needed was for a rope to be dropped, for a sister to fall. They had too few as it is. The girl in the center of the builder group was tall, good looking, and sporting a well muscled figure. She turned slightly at Obara's approach, her brilliant blue eyes catching the light. They said that she was Robert Baratheon's bastard, and looking at her, one could believe it. 

“Lord Commander,” Mya Stone greeted, returning her gaze to her sisters briefly. “My apologies, I would-” 

“Enough, Mya.” Obara gestured for the builder at her side to take her place. “Rank is not more important than immediate safety.” 

The builders made the switch smoothly, if slowly out of regard for the delicate nature of the operation. The Sisters perched on the ice did not even notice. Obara retained her patience, and carefully watched the process just in case she ever had to do it herself. One never knew what they might be called to do in service, not even her, and Obara was never one to put a title before duty. Once unburdened, Mya bowed her head briefly and accompanied Obara off to the side, still in view of the project. 

“Well?” Obara demanded, dropping courtesy entirely. The surprise Wildling attack they had sustained three days ago had left her without sleep or substantial food for days, and wha little tolerance she had for niceties before was long gone in the face of her own failure as a leader. Discovering that the damage to the lift to the top of the Wall rendered it unusable, effectively stranding half a dozen Sisters at the top, had been the last straw. 

Mya took a steadying breath before she answered, which Obara would have found amusing if the situation was not so dire. “We are making good progress. The damage is not nearly as extensive as we first thought, which will cut repair times significantly.” 

Obara nodded, cautiously optimistic. “When will it be usable again?” 

Mya hesitated for a half second. “Two more days at the most.” Obara shook her head, frowning, and Mya raised her hands. “I would say sooner, but there is no safe way to repair the lift in the full dark, and we don’t have enough builders to do full rotations safely. I can promise to push them to their limits, but not to go past them.” 

Obara nodded. “Sensible. Without builders those Sisters will never get down.” Mya smiled slightly, visibly unsure of whether Obara is joking or not. 

Obara fixed her with a stern stare. “This is important Mya, I need this finished.” 

Mya straightened her back even more. “Yes, Commander. I assure you we are working as fast as we can.” 

“Good. Get back to it then.” She turned and headed for the Castle proper, already thinking of the next order of business. Mya scurried away, back to her charges. 

“Oh, and Mya?” Obara called over her shoulder, only vaguely looking in the girl’s direction. Mya turned, and seemed to be waiting with baited breath. It almost made Obara smile. “I count on you in this. Do not make me regret making you Head Builder.” 

Mya sucked in a breath. “I will not,” she said, somehow sounding both excited and sad. Her predecessor, a good humored baseborn woman and Mya’s mentor, had been killed in the Wildling attack three nights prior. Obara knew the feeling all too well. Hartha Blacktyde, Lord Commander before Obara, had been an exceptional, and terrifying, Iron Islander who took no prisoners and showed no mercy to her Sisters and even less to the wildlings. 

Satisfied for the moment, Obara turned from her once more and made her way up the stairs, glancing out into the yard to check on the damage there. It was minimal, and what did need fixing was being attended to. Obara nodded to herself, satisfied that she chose well, that Mya wound't be a problem despite her age. Some of her charges responded best to a gentle hand, to quiet encouragement and subtle praise, and to those Obara sends Malora, the maester of the Sisterhood. Though not weak by any stretch, Malora had a talent for being just as forgiving and just as harsh as was needed, a master of empathy and persuasion. The maester of the sisterhood was possessed of a delicate touch and a good humor and balanced the Lord Commander well. Obara never had soft edges when she was a girl in living in a palace in Dorne, and she certainly never developed them at the Wall. 

Mya Stone was not one of the more delicate ones. Though cold did not suit her naturally, leadership fit them both like a hand in a glove. She was like Obara in that respect and responded best to a challenge. 

_Speaking of which._ Obara eyed the woman coming towards her from the main hall with distaste. Red from head to toe and not dressed nearly warmly enough, the lady Melisandre challenged Obara not to murder her every single day. 

“Lord Commander,” the Lady called out, smirking. “I was just looking for you.” 

Obara made no attempt to hide her distaste. They passed that point long ago when Obara refused to allow her King unrestricted access to Castle Black. “Priestess. I was otherwise engaged with the fortifications. It is very time consuming.” Her words were blatantly clear. _Unlike you, I have a job to do._ Melisandre smiled at her, white teeth flashing. Obara showed her own. “I’m sure you understand.” 

“Of course,” the Red woman demurred, tilting her head to try to seem submissive. It looked as ridiculous on her as a dress would on a goat. She was far too intimidating for that, too visibly powerful. “I merely wanted to ask you to dine with me tonight. I believe that we have much to discuss.” 

Obara forced herself to not roll her eyes. Some of the Sisters were watching from the courtyard, wide eyed and curious. “Do we? I was not informed.” 

“I saw-”

“Enough. I do not care what you believe you saw in your fires, witch. It is not my concern.” 

Nonplussed, the red woman smirked at her, all secrets and base sexual attractions. No doubt she believed Obara to be just as easy to charm as the royal family she owned. She should know better by now. “This time I think you would, but it is no matter. You’ll find out for yourself soon enough.” 

With that she took her leave, shooting Obara one last coy look that sent a shred of doubt through her resolve. Obara curled her hand around the hilt of her sword and made herself walk away slowly, forcibly reminding herself that keeping Stannis’ pet heretic around was the best compromise for getting the rest of his army and staff out of her castle. 

_It was this or it was blood,_ she reminded herself again. Fond as she was of blood, Obara had others to think about now. Or perhaps thirty three was simply wiser age altogether. Though still fierce, the force of the Sisters had been greatly diminished by the battle at the Fist of the First Men and all the raids they had sustained over the past months. Wildlings were pouring into their territory in groups of ten and twenty, difficult as all hell to stop, fleeing South in fear of the Others. 

The most recent attack had been a bad one, a targeted strike cutting down some of their best remaining fighters. And worse, some of them had gotten away to spread the word about the sorry state of the Night’s Watch defenses. She sent her best tracking girls to prevent the truth from getting out by whatever means necessary, Jenna Flowers, Madge the Red Cat, and Alys Karstark. Obara sent them away with pride in her heart. The Watch was not what it used to be in numbers, but at least she still had the fighters. 

Despite that, a more permanent solution must be found soon, or Obara feared she will find herself facing the loss of a castle that had stood for hundreds of years. The Commander who lost Castle Black. She would be the subject of mockery and foolish songs, or worse, she wouldn't. The loss of Castle Black would be the start of the loss of the world to the White Walkers. Then there would be no one to sing songs about ugly Obara Sand, the last and worst Commander. Then there would be nowhere to run.

 _Perhaps Dorne would be far enough,_ she thought, smirking to herself but not believing it. _Perhaps my fierce former sisters will find a solution after I am gone._

Obara walked across the courtyard, pausing to watch the recruits in training. War always sent girls running to the Wall, and some of the ones that made it actually amount to something. When their lives got upturned and their fathers leave, those soft, summer girls looked to the North and thought of protecting themselves, instead of having someone else do it. 

Obara watched one of those summer girls get struck across the face and fall with a wail. She rolled her eyes. Obara always preferred the former whores, women whose charms started to fade before they made enough money to retire. They have little fear, and a great survival instinct. They didn't cry when they fall. 

“Most of these girls in the courtyard are little more than refugees, though there are a few potential fighters,” a voice said near her ear, and Obara turned to see the trainer, Janea Umber, approaching. She was so tall even Obara must look up at her, but still she bowed her head in respect. “Lord Commander.”

Obara nodded back. “Greatjane. I trust that you will have them all up to form.” 

“Oh aye, I will,” she said, leaning against the railing to scan the lines. “But it might be an uphill struggle for some. Or most.” 

“They will have to be enough,” Obara said, feeling the creeping doubt in her spine again but determined to ignore it. The Wall will hold. They will hold. 

“We got a new one today. Skinny thing, but she seems tough.” 

_One?_ Obara thought, frowning. _Better than nothing._

Obara watched the girls with new interest. “Which one?” 

Janea shook her head. “Injured. Apparently she made it here all by herself, but not without taking some damage.” 

“A runner,” Obara replied, thinking of the possibilities. Perhaps one of those whores she favored, or a strong farmers daughter, used to hard work. Or maybe...The North is riddled with Iron Islanders on yet another invasion doomed to fail. With Stannis on the hunt, many of them had likely jumped ship. The iron born were survivors. Who else would have made it all alone? Obara pictured her, bloodied and proud, a harsh beauty. She smiled. 

“Keep me updated on her condition,” she said, and Janea nodded, turning away. Obara held up a hand. “No wait. I changed my mind. Have her brought to me when she is able.” 

The Greatjane inclined her head and took her leave to continue menacing the recruits. Obara stared up at the Wall, trying to make out the Sisters stranded at the top. Of course, she saw nothing, only snow, and the creeping feeling intensified. 

***

The news she had been feeling finally came for her at midday, so abruptly that Obara feared for a moment that she would falter in front of maester Malora, who had brought it to her in the form of a letter. She clenched the short note in one hand, letting her nails dig into the skin to ground her. _It can’t be true._

Malora frowned at her, silver hair catching the sunlight. “Commander?” 

“Thank you maester.” Obara met the other woman’s eyes steadily. “Now if you would excuse me I have some business-” 

“Your father was an honorable man,” Malora said, voice full of sympathy but refusing to be so easily shut down. Obara should have known better than to have tried, the woman had chain three loops long and steel spine to go with it. 

“I have no father. I have only Sisters,” Obara said, pushing past the older woman without further comment and making her way to her personal chambers. Malora might have been brave, but no one was so brave as to follow her there. She took a deep breath, throat burning with the cold even after all these years, and steeled herself to the foreign pain that gripped her. It was not doubt that she had been feeling, but _dread_. 

A few of her rangers stopped her one the way and gave her updates on Alys and the others, still out in wildling territory, and she took care of the business just as a proper leader should. Obara moved in measured steps, kept her face stern and her posture unyielding, and all while her heart threatened to betray her. _Surely, the Lord Commander of the Sisterhood of the Night’s Watch has no father. No whore mother. No siblings._ Her head was nearly spinning, and it infuriated her almost as much as it made her sick. She steeled herself and got back to work. 

Mya Stone would see to it that lift to the top of the Wall is repaired, Alys Karstark would return with news and the heads of dead wildlings, and the Red Woman would devise some plan for destroying the White Walkers. Obara would command. 

After an eternity, she returned to her chambers and locked herself in. From there, she had no idea what to do. Oberyn Martell, the Red Viper and Prince of Dorne. Dead. Killed in a trial by combat for the imp Lannister. Killed by the man who had raped and murdered Elia Martell. She stared into the fire. It should mean nothing to her. 

Obara moved, hauling herself around the room and tried to make it so, poured herself a glass of wine and sat down with her maps and letters, determined to work, but all she could do was think. 

Her sisters, the ones linked to her by blood instead of vow, would no doubt be plotting their revenge. By now they had likely launched it. Obara burned for it, hungered for the chance to put an axe in the head of Tywin Lannister. But she would never have any part in it. She took a deep breath and accepted it into her heart. Her father would have sought revenge, but he was never in Obara’s position. He was never a Commander. In many ways, Obara was more important now than Oberyn had ever been. It was a sobering thought, even with all the wine she poured down her throat. 

It had been Oberyn who had come to collect Obara from her Oldtown whore of a mother, who taught her how to fight. It had been her father who put a spear of Dorne in her hand, who taught her to love her sisters. It had be he who encouraged her to join the Night’s Watch when she mentioned it, willing to both travel leagues to find her and to finally let her go. 

“You have the heart of a great leader and the strength and skill to exercise your will,” he said to her the night she finally gathered the courage to bring it up, sharing a balcony at the water gardens with her in the setting sun. “Whether you apply these gifts I have given you in service of Dorne or some other place, I believe you will do me proud.” 

At sixteen, Obara had not expected to hear such words from him, and she shook her head. “I am not so sure.” 

Oberyn had laughed. “Well, I am. You are my daughter, what else would you do?” 

Obara smiled as she remembers his laugh, and his rages, and his quiet moments. As the eldest, she had the most time with her father, shared the most moments. All precious, and none of her concern any longer. 

_Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken._ Obara ran a shaking hand over her face. They were never truly hers, but they were what she lived by still. Weakness called to her, promising a satisfying fight, a glorious death, and an eternity of being called Obara Oathbreaker for abandoning her charge. She opened her eyes, realizing for the first time that they had been closed. She would do her dead father proud. _I am the watcher on the walls._

She had no father, no mother, no half siblings. All she had were Sisters, some of which were stuck freezing at the top of the Wall, some of which died torn to pieces at the Fist of the First Men. Her responsibility. Those were the sisters that matter, the frozen ones, the dead ones, not the serpents of Dorne. Obara had no link to them left. 

She did not cry, it wasn't in her nature, but she did give herself a moment to sit and stare at the fire. She felt the warmth of it, let herself drift back. No doubt her spineless uncle Prince half a world away would be doing the same for days, staring out at the water gardens, doing nothing. She shook her head, allowing herself one more moment of righteous anger. Not her concern. She had her own business to attend to. 

As though sent by the gods, there was a knock at her door. Obara eyed it suspiciously for a moment before she corrected her posture and responded. “Come in.” 

The door swung open to reveal one of the stewardesses, a stern faced former whore. Forgettable. Obara didn't even remember her name. Several feet behind her was a tall and pretty girl with mouse brown hair, flaming roots, and a terrified expression, though she was clearly trying to pretend to be calm. There was a bandage wrapped around her upper arm. The new recruit. They regarded each other in silence for several seconds before Obara sighed. 

“I was hoping for an Asha Greyjoy,” Obara said, looking away from her. “Instead I have you.” 

The girl hesitated in the doorway for a moment before entering the room. She didn't look around the space, keeping her eyes in Obara’s direction, though not on her face. The silence stretched again, irritating and wasteful. 

“Well?” Obara asked, leaning forward to rest her elbows on the desk. “Who are you then?”

The girl blinked, owl-like. She looked hopelessly confused. The stewardess who brought her in wrapped a hand around her uninjured arm and gave her a hard shake. “The Lord Commander asked you a question, _girl._ ” 

Already pale as a sheet, the girl wrung her hands. “Yes, my lo- yes Commander, I’m sorry.” Her voice shook. Obara resisted the urge to roll her eyes. A future stewardess no doubt, and likely a useless one at that. She wondered why the Greatjane would say she showed promise. The girl continued, eyes fixed on the floor. “It’s just, I thought you knew who I was. I thought that was why you summoned me.” 

Obara’s eyebrows flew up, and she laughed for the first time in days at the audacity, though inside she was curious. “Oh? Are you someone special then?” 

The girl flushed. “No my lor- my lady.” 

“Commander will suffice,” Obara said, still amused in spite of herself and watching the girl more carefully. She had the bearing of a lady. Highborn no doubt. _Did she expect me to be impressed?_

“Commander,” the girl responded, visibly relieved to have the proper title. Highborn indeed.

“Amusing as this is, I have work to be doing. Who are you?” 

The girl took a steadying breath, finally meeting Obara’s eyes, and Obara knew who she was, had seen those eyes in another. 

“My name is Sansa Stark, Commander.” 

The stewardess jumped. Obara leaned back, the possibilities already racing through her mind. “I see, and what are you doing here?” 

Sansa blinked. “I have nowhere to go-” 

Obara laughed. “Yes you do, you’re a highborn girl with a powerful last name. Politics has a short memory, trust me I know. You have everywhere to go, and yet you are at the Wall. Why are you here?” Obara demended again, staring into the girl’s wide eyes. 

Sansa held her gaze, though her hands trembled. “I don’t want to be a pawn anymore,” she said, nearly whispering. She looked a mess, but her back was straight, unbroken. 

“Good,” Obara said, standing from behind the desk and picking up her spear. “Then let us get started.”


	2. The Captive

As unforgiving as the Iron Islands were, the North is worse. Far, far worse. At least on the Islands, the ocean tempered the climate to bare minimum of hospitable levels. Asha frowned as she stared out over the wicked landscape. The entire scene was stark white, trees and all. She hadn't seen a wild animal in days, maybe even weeks. She knew that the men had taken to eating the horses. Soon they might even eat each other. 

Asha curled in on herself further, trying and failing to escape the wind. She knew the face of hunger. She’d seen it on the people she kept captive in the belly of her ships, and sometimes on those sailing the ships. She thought she saw the heart of it when they began to dwindle at Deepwood Motte, and had naively believed that being Stannis Baratheon's prisoner would at least mean food, but this hunger was another beast entirely. Asha had been in some dire straits without quailing, but she feared this starvation. There was no way to fight it, only the slow slide into weakness and death. She gripped the bars tighter, willing her hands to feel something. 

The last thing she wanted is to waste away, her prime stolen from her by the ice and some man who wanted to call himself a king. 

“Alright there girl?” a voice called to her, and she looked down through the bars of her cage with narrowed eyes. 

_The Mormont woman come to bother me again_ , she thought bitterly and refused to respond. No doubt Stannis had her assigned as her new jailer since Asha’s poorly planned and failed escape. The attempt had won her this new cage prison, as opposed to the simple chains that had held her on the baggage train before. That had been an insult to her intelligence, and now Stannis insulted her further by keeping her like an animal. The soldiers all glare at her now, though she was not sure why they feel the need to be offended. Would they not have done the same given the opportunity? 

The Mormont woman raised an eyebrow at her, still waiting for an answer, and Asha realized that she’d been silent. 

“I’ve lived through worse,” she said, keeping her chin high. It was a lie, but she didn't think that Mormont knew her well enough to tell when she was being less than truthful. Not yet. Though they may have been in for a long winter together. 

The woman, Alysane if Asha remembered her first name correctly, chuckled, reaching up to sweep the hair that had escaped from her braid back behind her ear. “I see. Well, I certainly have, so who’s to say that you haven’t as well.” 

Asha made a noncommittal sound, shifting in her cage. “The Ironborn are a harder people than any others in all of the seven kingdoms and beyond.” 

“Is that right?” 

“That’s right.” 

Alysane hummed but began to drift away from the cage. Asha felt a sharp moment of panic she didn't try to analyze. “What was the worse time?” she called out, gratified that her voice sounded sufficiently bored. 

Alysane turned back, eyebrows raised. “What?”

Asha feigned disinterest. “You said you experienced a worse time than this as well, what was it? I assume it had something to do with this snow filled wasteland you call home.” 

Alysane laughed softly again, and Asha privately marveled at her level headedness. She had never taken insults to her homeland nearly as well. 

“It was when I visited the Wall. Or rather, when I was trying to come back from visiting the Wall.” 

Asha blinked, surprised in spite of herself. “You’ve been to the Wall?” 

“Oh yes, and like a damn family reunion it was!” She threw her head back and laughed, earning herself a few bitter looks from the other soldiers, which she ignored. “The women of the North, and especially the Mormont’s, have been manning the Wall for generations.” Alysane banged her fist on her bear-painted breastplate, and Asha smiled. 

“Yes, quite the honor,” she said caustically, and leaned back against the bars of her cage. 

Alysane nodded, apparently completely seriously. “It is, and don’t think I don’t know why you’re asking.” 

Asha’s eyebrows flew up. “Really? And why is that?”

The bear woman eyed her with new distaste. “Come now. We both know you meant to head to the Wall when you escaped.” 

Asha laughed derisively. “No I wasn’t, I was going home,” Asha said and then cursed herself for not thinking ahead. If her guards thought that she wanted to go North, then it would make it all the easier for her to go South. _Stupid, stupid._ Asha bit her numb lip, blaming the cold. 

It didn't matter, because Alysane didn't seem to believe her anyway. “Whatever you say, fish girl,” she waved her hand. 

Asha rolled her eyes. “I know you know that’s incorrect. You won’t goad me so easily.” 

Alysane smirked. “Perhaps. I know you know the Wall is your best bet for survival too, there’s no point in denying.” 

Asha smirked back, embracing a new strategy. Protest too much. She leaned forward so the Mormont woman could see her better. “Yes, just imagine the joy of getting to experience this lovely country-” She made a sweeping gesture with her hand, indicating the frozen landscape. “Forever.” 

Alysane leaned forward too. “The Wall is worse. Much worse.” 

“All the more reason to run in the other direction. Iron Islanders aren’t meant to play in the snow.” 

“Tell that to Lord Commander Blacktyde.” 

“The late Commander Blacktyde? Buried in the snow instead of at sea where she belonged?” Asha teased her back, but Alysane’s eyes narrowed into slits. 

“Watch you mouth when you speak that way of a Lord Commander, they do more for you then you will ever know.” 

Asha leaned away, rather taken by surprise. “I apologize,” she said, not entirely sincerely. What had a Lord Commander ever done for her people lately? Alysane just nodded, still visibly tense. They ride in silence for a few minutes, Asha in her cage and Alysane on her horse. 

“Have there ever been any Mormont Lord Commanders?”

“Yes, many.” 

Asha tilted her head to the side. “What about future ones?”

Alysane shook her head and smiles. “How did you know?” 

Asha shrugged. “Everyone hears when a highborn girl abandons her position for the Watch.”

“Even the wild northerns get gossiped about? Imagine that.”

“She is your sister, yes? Or is she Jeor’s daughter?”

“Yes, my sister Lyra. She is a ranger. The North Women have long manned the wall with pride, and the Mormont’s especially.” 

“Protecting us all from the white walkers and other such monsters.” Asha grinned. “How nice.” 

“Clearly you don’t deal with many wildlings.” 

“More than you might think,” Asha said with a shrug. 

Alysane rolled her eyes. “Of course, Iron Islanders might as well be wildlings.” 

Asha narrowed hers. “Watch it, bear woman.” 

“Or what? You’ll come out of that cage and strangle me?” She gripped the pommel of her sword. “I’d like to see you try.” 

Asha scoffed and leaned back against the bars, away from her jailor. Lucky for her, Alysane did not try to engage her again, so she shut her eyes and ignored her when she called out, letting the cold slip back into her bones as her mind slipped away. It was too cold to sleep, though she preferred to sleep while they're on the move. The soldiers were less likely to attack her at night if she was wide awake. Still, the ache the air brought her was too keen to allow her to relax today. She kept her eyes firmly shut anyway, and her ears open. 

There were a few favored topics of conversation in all armies; women, home, and the gossip about the ruling family. Asha was long used to them now, having commanded men of her own, and was well attuned to the small gems of genuine worth that slip through in the mundane flow of never ending small talk. Ever since the Frey’s murdered the majority of the remaining Starks, the family talk had tended to revolve around them and how Stannis will avenge them. It was the _how_ that interested her. 

“All I’m saying is once we roust the traitors, who will lead?” One soldier asked another, his voice at a normal volume. 

Asha could imagine how the other one shruged, cold and scared but not wanting to show it. “Stannis.”

“But in the North.” 

“The Starks.”

The man laughed. “Which Starks? Because the last time I checked, they were pretty thin on the ground. Even Ned Stark’s bastard died at the Red Wedding along with his King. All that’s left is the girl, Ayra, and who knows where she is.” 

“Think it’s Arya, and you mean the other one. She’s been missing for ages.” 

“Doesn’t matter.” 

“Maybe not, especially if she’s not the last Stark.” This one pitched his voice low, but if it was to shield his words from others because they were genuinely important or if he simply wanted to seem important Asha didn't know. 

The other one scoffed. “You don’t mean Benjen!” 

“Aye,” he said and Asha had to bite her cheek to keep from laughing. Of course the soldiers would cling to the idea of poor dead Benjen Stark, last and forgotten son of Winterfell. 

“What, the man is missing for all this time and he’s just going to reappear?” 

“He might.” 

“He’s dead.” 

“You don’t know that.” 

“Yes I do, if Benjen Stark were still alive he would have come and fought with his nephew. He would have come back here and taken Winterfell back from the Boltons.” 

“Maybe. But I heard that Lord Eddard was always sending him away on missions and things, maybe he’s on one right now.” 

“For years?” 

“Why not?” 

“ _Benjen Stark._ Honestly. No Stark just stays away when the North is in trouble.” 

“Like I said, maybe. But you can’t deny that he would make a good choice for Stannis after we roust the Boltons.” 

“Flay the Boltons, like they deserve if we can ever reach them, and yes I can.” 

“Fine, and we will, we’re only three leagues from that crofter’s village, we’ll be there soon,” he said, and Asha smiled to herself in her cage, pleased to know exactly where she was for once. The hungrier they all became the lazier they were about guarding her. Of course, she was hungry too but she was also made of sterner stuff than them. All she had to do is wait. Her next escape wouldn't be so unsuccessful. 

They stopped for the night in some dreadful snow filled clearing no different from the rest of the road. Asha’s wagon cage was unceremoniously pushed aside in some random snow drift, stones jammed next to the wheels as if they were afraid that she would roll herself to freedom somehow. She snorted when the men walked away, amused in spite of herself. 

“Something funny?” 

Asha turned her head to see Alysane coming towards her, holding what seemed to be food, or at least water. Asha stopped herself from leaning forward too eagerly. “Just keeping my spirits up.” She smiled broadly, playing nice. 

Alysane snorted. “I’m sure.” 

“Have you brought me a present?” 

“Horse meat broth and water.” 

_A northern delicacy._ Asha stopped herself from saying, and put a hand to her heart. “My thanks,” she said instead and received the bowl as her reward, though from the look in her eye Alysane seemed to know what she had been thinking. 

“Do the Iron Islanders treat their prisoners like this?” 

She considered lying, but she already had the food. “No, most of the time we don’t even take many prisoners, except for work.” 

“How charming.” 

“Needless to say, I’m grateful to the gods for being the prisoner of a Baratheon instead.” 

“My gods or yours? Or Stannis’?” 

Asha shrugged. “Does it matter?” 

Alysane’s eyebrows shot up. “Most would say yes.” 

Asha drank her broth and smirked. “Don’t the Sisters worship whoever they please? I’ve heard they still keep the old gods.” 

“Some do.” 

“Does your sister?” 

Alysane smiled. “Yes, as do my children. As do I.”

Asha smirked back. “You have children?”

“Yes.” 

“A daughter?”

“Yes, and a son.”

“How would you feel if she joined the watch?” 

“Proud,” Alysane said without hesitation and Asha blinked. 

“Bullshit.”

“It’s true.” Alysane laughed. “The North Remembers.”

“That is what they tell me,” Asha said and toasted with her tepid water, already starting to freeze. Alysane laughed and toasted her back, even though her glove was empty. Asha shook her head. “How many Mormont Sisters does the north remember exactly?” 

Alysane puffed out a breath that steamed in front of her in a cloud. “Well, I’m not sure if I could rightly say. We have long defended the Wall with pride. There was Lord Commander Hesta, Lord Commander Madge, not to mention legendary ranger Lyra Mormont, for whom my sister was named.” 

“Wasn’t the first female Lord Commander a Mormont? After the Night’s King, I mean.” 

Alysane smiled like she knows what Asha was up to. “No, you’re thinking of Nel, the fourteenth Lord Commander. She was lowborn, maybe even a wildling.” 

Asha felt her eyebrows shoot up. “You’re joking.” 

“No one really knows. Most of the documents of that time have been destroyed, intentionally or otherwise.” Alysane shrugged. “Now, Lord Commander Malva, the fifteenth, was a Mormont.” 

“Nel wasn’t Lord Commander for long though, Malva might as well have been the first.” 

Alysane shook her head. “No, she was a supporter of Nel even when Brandon the Breaker tried to pull her down. You have to remember that this was the Age of Heroes, and women had only just been accepted to fight for the watch, and only because they needed the numbers to defeat the Night’s King!” 

Asha nodded. “I’m sure they didn’t take kindly to a woman leading the Watch then.” 

“No. They didn’t,” Alysane said, caught up in her own imaginings. Asha regarded her calmly, wondering herself about the records that were destroyed, the lies they were likely told about that time. She knew how strongly the stories of one's ancestors could come to impact a person, almost like they were a person’s own memories. Alysane caught her looking and smiled. “Malva was set to marry and to play an important role for my family, but she chose to throw her lot in with Nel instead, and follow in her footsteps.” 

“How brave.” Asha smirked, unable to resist. “They might have been rather large shoes to fill, if they really belonged to a wildling.” Alysane stared at her, the look on her face mask smooth for a split second before she laughed. 

Asha laughed too, but more quietly. She had never really understood the point of laughing at her own jokes. Alysane leaned closer, not quite within arm’s reach and Asha shuffled forward, ostensibly to keep warm. Internally, she was assessing. The cage was in many ways more difficult to escape from than most cells, but not impossible. It also provided her with the distinct advantage of not being directly chained to anything. She maintaind her positive demeanor for the sake of the Mormont woman, but all the while kept a lookout for opportunity. 

“You are terrible,” Alysane said when she stopped laughing. 

“You said it yourself, I’m basically a wildling.” She grinned. “Like your Nel.”

Alysane snorted. “You are nothing like Nel.” 

“No?” Asha leaned in, and Alysane copied her on instinct, clearly not thinking. In less than a moment, Asha’s hand slipped through the bars and around the hilt of her new friend’s knife. Alysane gasped but Asha had it up against the other woman’s throat before she could move. It dug into her skin cruelly, pointed towards the cage in case she got big ideas about pulling away too fast. 

To her credit, Alysane looked more annoyed than scared. “Snake.”

Asha smiled brightly. “Kraken. Unlock the door or I’ll kill you.”

“You’ll still be in the cage if you kill me.”

“Yes, but I’ll feel better about it when I watch your hot blood pouring out all over the snow. It might even steam.” 

“It probably will.” 

“Put your hand into your jerkin and get the keys. Unlock this cage.”

“No.” 

Asha tried not to let anything show on her face, but she had started to become genuinely concerned that she was serious. She was going to die to keep Asha locked up. 

“Don’t be stupid now.” She pressed down harder with the knife. Alysane didn't flinch. Neither did Asha. 

“What about your daughter? Hm? What will she-”

“She’ll be proud.”

“I’m sure she will be, but she’ll be all alone,” Asha said, and Alysane’s eyes narrowed into slits. She pressed on. “How far do you really think I’ll get? It’s so cold and I’ll be one girl all alone in the woods.” 

“You’re right.” Alysane ground out. “So why are you trying to do it?”

“I won’t die like this, I’d rather die chasing my freedom.” 

“How romantic,” Alysane grumbled, but fished the keys out for her anyway. She slotted them into the lock and Asha immediately wrapped her hand around the bigger woman’s neck and pulled with all her strength, slamming her head into the bars. 

She dropped like a stone in a lake, but the snow muffled the sound of her fall. Asha glanced down at her with narrowed eyes as she unlocked her cage. It had been easy, so easy that Asha felt the need to feel grateful for it. Asha hauled the woman into the cage and closed the door, partly as a trick and partly because she would feel badly if the woman got frostbite on her face, even if it wasn't very pretty to begin with. It was difficult, weak as she was from the cold and hunger, but finally she managed it. They had noticeably different builds. Someone would notice eventually, if they hadn’t already, but Asha planned to be long gone by then.

She turned around and made herself walk, not run, for the trees. Nothing attracted attention like a fast moving target. Her heart pounded the entire way, and it only increased when she hears a shout of alarm, barely out of sight of the camp. She whipped around, then turned back, mind racing. She glanced up at the sun, judging it’s position. North or South? 

Behind her, dogs were barking. She had to make a choice, and she had to make it now. Her fingers twitch, longing for a weapon that wasn't there. She would have to make her own luck or die trying. 

Asha took a deep breath, the icy air burning her from the inside out, and ran.


	3. The Maester

“Is she really?” 

“Yes, that’s what I heard.”

“Not the lost one though? Are you certain?”

“No, it’s the older one, Sansa. I’m sure of it.” 

The whispers slipped through every crack, following Malora wherever she went. She rolled her eyes as she passed a gaggle of stewardesses, pressed together for both warmth and gossip. They had just recently gotten over the arrival of Alys Karstark and now an even more important highborn lady with Stark in her name descended on them, inciting the Sisters into gossip and distraction as it always did when some pretty highborn lady washed up on their doorstep. Wonderful. 

Malora made her way across the courtyard, watching the girls in the training ground as she passed. 

War always drove them here, but it was usually the poor girls, the ones most likely to suffer. Not the highborn ones, they usually stayed safe behind their shorter walls, taking whatever suffering that came their way instead of taking the risk of leaving. For the most part. But clearly there were exceptions, such as the Stark girl. 

She was not doing well, not that anyone really thought she would, least of all Malora. She had seen enough green girls arrive at the Wall over the years to know a quitter when she saw one, and Sansa was no Sister. Necessity alone brought her to the Wall, and Malora seriously doubted that she would stay with them long enough to take her vows. 

_Just long enough to bother me to death,_ she thought as she watches the Stark girl herself make a beeline for her from the other side of the courtyard, her eyes red rimmed and puffy. Malora scoffed and turned away. _You would think that she’d had enough of crying for one life._

“Maester Hightower,” Sansa greeted her with a curtsy, taking hold of her dirty skirt with one pale hand. Clearly she had not broken the habit yet. 

Malora raised an eyebrow at her. “Sansa,” she replied and saw the girl fight a flinch at the use of her given name instead of her pretty title. “Or do you prefer Alayne?”

Sansa actually paled, though she had been white with cold already. “No, maester. I am Sansa Stark.” 

“Very well. What can I do for you?” She spared Sansa no pleasantries. It was not in her best interest to get used to something only to have it yanked away. What the girl really needed was a friend, not to mention a spine, but neither of those things were something Malora could provide. 

Sansa averted her gaze, clearly uncomfortable. “I was wondering if you might answer a question for me, maester.” 

“Very well.” 

“I’ve heard that Alys Karstark, my kin, is here. But I haven’t seen her.” 

Malora frowned at her. “She’s beyond the wall at the moment on a sensitive mission.” 

“I see,” Sansa responded quietly. “Do you know when she will be back?”

“No.” 

Sansa’s hands twisted in her skirt. “Have you had word from her party?”

“Do you fear for her?” Malora asked, rapidly running out of patience. “She left for the Watch as soon as her father left for war.” 

Sansa blinked. “Yes of course, she is my family.” 

“Not yet she’s not.” Malora shook her head. “Fear for yourself instead, girl, lest you don’t learn anything during your time here.” 

Sansa tipped her head back, though her lower lip quivered slightly. “This is my home now.”

“Oh is it?” Malora asked and turned away, quite ready to be done with little girls for the day, but Sansa spoke to her back. 

“Thank you, maester, for the advice. I’ll try to remember.” Her voice was soft but strong, a tone Malora had not heard from her before. Sansa stayed still, clearly waiting for a reply, but Malora didn't turn or even pause. She had business to see to with the Lord Commander more urgent than the stumbling manners of a recruit. 

Of course, when she arrived at her offices, Obara wanted to know about Sansa Stark. 

Malora suppressed a sigh. “As far as I can tell, she is failing to adapt. I imagine she won’t last long enough to take her vows.” 

Obara frowned, her finger tapping absently against the hardwood of her chair. “Explain.” 

“The Sisters have been gossiping about her, and none of it is favorable,” Malora paused to better gather her thoughts about what exactly it was that bothered her about the Stark girl. “She sought me out earlier to ask a question she could have asked of anyone. I think she’s afraid to speak to someone else.” 

“She finds you comforting?” Obara asked, grinning now. She resembled a beast, or maybe a snake, all teeth and sharp eyes. “I find that difficult to believe.” 

Malora gave her commander a dry look, unbowed. “As a high born lady she would have grown up around a trusted maester and no doubt associates the title with safety.” 

Obara raised an eyebrow. “Foolish. I’m surprised she doesn’t know better by now.” 

“After speaking with her I can honestly say that I am not.” 

“You yourself are highborn,” Obara pointed out. Malora did not feel the need to do the same. There were many high born ladies at the Wall, it didn't set Sansa apart in the way she probably expects it to. 

Malora pressed her lips together, hard, before speaking again. “Yes, though the maester training tends to flush most of the poison out.” 

Obara laughed in one short bark. “Fair enough. If she stays what do you think she’ll be suited for?”

“I imagine it would have to be the stewardesses.”

“Sensible.” The grin and the glint returned. “Perhaps you could use an assistant.” 

Malora gave her commander a look that verged on a glare. “And yet perhaps not. Have we given any consideration to the political situation this could cause? It might be best for us to turn her away.”

“The Night's Watch turns no woman away,” Obara responded absently, rifling through some of the papers on her desk. She pulled out one letter and held it out to Malora to take. “And yes, partly because of this.” 

Malora accepted it and began to read, noting the seal at the bottom first. Harrenhal. One section in particular stands out. _It would be a shame if the Night’s Watch were to make such an enemy. Winterfell and the Watch have long stood united. And would it not be best for Lady Stark to come home?_

“I do believe that it is signed in blood,” Obara said, smirking. 

“How dramatic, and unlike him. Theatrics are for the weak, but it is interesting that he found out so quickly,” Malora commented, worry building in the pit of her stomach. 

“Disturbing, you mean.” 

Malora nodded. “A spy?”

“I think that it’s safe to assume.” Obara turned her attention to the list she kept pinned to the far wall with the names of every girl in the service. It ran from ceiling to floor, the print indistinguishable from this distance. She noded. “I want her, or them, found. Put some trusted girls on it.” 

“Of course.” Malora noded again out of habit, already thinking of the potential candidates. She didn’t have to look at the list to find the correct names. “I suggest Neva, Bridgit, and possibly Rhonda, though she might be too prone to romantic entanglements to be fully trusted to be impartial. The spy might be well protected. Loyalty kills as frequently as its lack.” 

“That it does,” Obara commented mildly, still looking into the middle distance. Malora frowned, wondering where her thoughts were taking her. South, most likely. 

“Lord Commander if I may?”

Obara met her gaze. “Yes?”

“Alys Karstark was one thing, but Sansa Stark?” She gestured with the letter from Littlefinger. “Whatever benefit you think we can gain by keeping her surely does not outweigh the risks. Two highborn ladies joining the Watch won’t sit well with their male relatives. Tensions will rise in the kingdom, even more than they already have, and we certainly will not have the support of the Crown on this issue.” 

Obara smirked. “Which Crown?” 

“Any, all.” 

“We have the support of Stannis, and of Dorne.” 

“Your uncle will not risk anything for us.” 

“No,” Obara commented, seemingly unconcerned as she looked back down at her desk, now writing a letter. “Nor should he. We stand apart.”

“I am is worried that this might finally be the time when the Lords have had enough. Powerful men have always feared us, and now we are not so fearsome. I am concerned that this Baelish is powerful enough to tip the balance. The Stark girl is a risk we might not be prepared to take.” 

“Fortune favors the brave, maester,” Obara said immediately, but then she noded, one hand curled under her chin, poised to strike. “Still. Bring her to me.” 

_Again?_ Malora thought but did not say. It didn't do to question this Lord Commander too often. There was still so much of Dorne in her. She would only listen to so much council and Malora had learned to save her judgement for when the Watch needs her the most. 

“Of course,” she said instead. “Is that all?”

“For now, thank you Malora.”

She inclined her head and then dismissed herself, heading for the courtyard with new purpose. She scanned the rows of bundled up recruits and hard faced veterans without finding her target. Scowling, she made for the living quarters. Of course, now that Malora actually needed to speak with the Stark girl, she was nowhere to be found. 

“Maester.” A passing Sister nodded to her respectfully as she walked by. Malora nodded back absently and then stopped, startling her. 

“Have you seen Sansa?”

“Stark?” the girl asked and then shook her head. “I mean, no, but I heard that she was seen crying behind the recruit’s quarters.” 

Malora frowned at her, freshly annoyed at being forced to deal with this farce. She waved a hand and the sister skittered away, back down the corridor without a second glance. _As she should,_ Malora thought, changing course to collect their little princess, who would come to fear her just as well. 

The first time Obara had questioned her, Sansa had told her that she came to them because she was tired of being a pawn. _Unlikely,_ Malora thought, still searching for her. Perhaps that was part of it, but there had to be more. Girls like her didn't simply run away, travel thousands of miles, without a real reason. A pressing one. 

It was her hair that gave Sansa away, now that the dye had washed out. Malora could have seen her from the other side of the castle without her hood on. Touched by fire, as the wildlings claim, though Malora doubted there was much fire left in her. She wasn't crying, but instead sitting in silence and solitude, apparently drained. And unobservant. Malora stopped not ten feet away, arms crossed and silent for over a minute before the girl looked up. 

“Oh, maester,” she stood, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand before crossing them primly in front of her. “Forgive me, I did not hear you.” 

Malora wanted to bite back. You are not forgiven, and you will not make it in the real North. Instead, she uncrossed her arms and fixed Sansa with a hard stare. 

“The Lord Commander wants to see you again.”

She could tell that Sansa wanted to question her, but restrained herself. Good. She took a step forward, but Malora didn't move. Sansa leaned away. “Maester?”

“Tell me why you’re here.” 

“Pardon?” Sansa blinked, all wide eyed innocence and trained falseness. She was a Lady, molded from birth to play a part. Was she remolded by Baelish? Malora couldn't think of what he stood to gain from this move, but that didn't mean a motive didn't exist. What was there to be gained from sending Sansa to the Night’s Watch as a spy? She didn't know, but she intended to find out. 

Malora took another step closer to Sansa, who was clearly struggling not to lean away again. “Tell me.” 

“I-” Sansa shooks her head. “I wanted to get out. I couldn’t do it anymore.” 

“And?”

“Nothing, I just needed to leave. Ever since I left home I’ve been shuffled around from castle to castle, from one horrible family to another. I couldn’t stand to be a part of it anymore-”

“A part of what?” 

Sansa stared at her, visibly horrified and wide open. Malora knew then that she wasn't the spy, but was even more sure that there was still more to her story. She closed the last of the distance between them, pressing Sansa back. “The Sisterhood must have no cracks, no breaches. You are a risk that we have taken on, do you understand that?” 

Sansa nodded, still silent. Malora shook her head. “No, you don’t. Maybe you will learn, but I can’t say. What I can say is that you have not told me everything concerning your exit from Petyr Baelish’s house. You will tell me why you left, and under what circumstances, or I will recommend to the Lord Commander that you be returned to either King’s Landing, Winterfell, or Harrenhal. It make no difference to me. Maybe she will even let you decide, but I doubt it. Are we clear?”

She nodded again, wide eyed and shaking slightly. Malora raised an eyebrow at her and she scrambled to stand a little straighter. “Yes, maester.”

“Well?”

Her eyes dropped to Malora’s feet. “I- I heard a rumor about my sister.” 

Malora frowned, searching her momory. “Arya? I thought she was lost.” 

“She is,” Sansa said at a near whisper. “It wasn’t true. Or, not in the way I thought.”

“What do you mean?” 

“I went into Lord Baelish's office when he was out talking to some of the Lords of the Vale. I had to know if Arya was still alive or not. If he was keeping her from me.” Sansa shook her head, so pale that she could have blended right into the snow, faded away. Malora felt a pang of pity for her for the first time. Maybe that was what she wanted from them, to disappear entirely. 

“I found a letter,” Sansa continued, eyes fixed somewhere in the middle distance. She hadn’t looked at Malora since she started speaking. “It was about Arya, but it wasn’t Arya.” 

A chill ran up Malora’s spine, but she didn't know why. “Meaning?” 

“My father- when we went down to King’s Landing we took people with us. The Poole’s. They worked for our family. Their daughter, Jeyne, she was my lady in waiting. She grew up with us, she would have known everything.” Tears started to streak Sansa’s cheeks. Malora leaned away, jaw set in a hard line. She didn't really need to hear anymore, but she motioned for Sansa to continue anyway. Sansa barely seemsed to see her. 

“He must have taken her when the Lannisters attacked my family, when they took my father to prison and Arya went missing.” She shook her head. “I didn’t even think about Jeyne, I just thought that must have killed her, or- But he took her. He had her the whole time.” 

“What was in the letter?” 

“Instructions, for her training.” 

“Training to be Arya Stark.”

Sansa nodded. “I couldn’t stay. I couldn’t- she was my friend.” 

“What happened to her?” 

Sansa shook her head, tears slipping down her cheeks again. “I don’t know.” 

“So you abandoned her and came here.”

Sansa kept shaking her head, apparently too upset to speak. 

“Yes, you did,” Malora said coldly, disturbed in spite of herself. How could they bring this girl into the Sisterhood? She didn't know, but she did know that she must deliver her to the Lord Commander. Bone tired, Malora gestured to the shaking girl. “Come.” 

Ignoring the whispers, Malora focused on bringing her to Obara, tear streaked face and all. The others stared at them as they walked along the icy paths leading away from the relative privacy of her hiding place. It was not hard to focus her attention elsewhere, she had much to consider, but she couldn't help but notice the red woman Melisandre taking particular interest in them as they passed. Malora met her gaze evenly, only turning away when required by the path she took to the Commander’s quarters. Questions of spies and girl puppets and fire gods rolled around in her mind, unconnected but unquestionably related if she could only see how. 

Walking beside her, Sansa might as well have been carved from the ice for all the presence she carried. Malora stopped her outside the door to Obara’s office with a look. She closed the door without checking to make sure she would be obeyed, half hoping that the girl would run so she would have the excuse she needed to eject her from the castle. 

Obara looked up, a sealed letter held lightly in her left hand. “Well?”

Malora inclined her head out of habit before speaking. “She is outside.” 

“Good. She can wait.” Obara held the letter out. “I am alerting Prince Martell to the situation, with the understanding that he will in turn give information back to me.” 

Malora took it. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me, Lord Commander.”

Obara smirked. “No, but I have found that it makes my life easier in the long run when we share information.” 

“Then I should tell you that Sansa Stark told me a very disturbing piece of news earlier, and I do not think she should remain with us.” 

“So you have said.” Obara leaned back against her high backed chair, smiling. “Let me be the judge of that, and let her tell me this news.” 

Malora inclined her head once again. “Yes, Commander.” 

“Send her in.” 

She did, but grabbed Sansa by the arm before she could move. “You will tell everything you told me to the Lord Commander, yes?”

Sansa looked up at her with cloudy eyes, her face red from both the cold and the crying. “Yes.”

“If you do not, I will know.”

“I understand,” Sansa responded, her voice perfectly clear. Malora let her go, watched her disappear into the room, slipping through the crack in the door like a mouse, silent and light. The door clicked shut, but Malora stared at it for a few seconds more before turning to her business. She had a letter to send, a castle to run. 

No one stopped her on the way to the the rookery. It was a small mercy, a boon from seven fictitious gods to be given space and time to think. When she arrived she had one of her more diligent stewardesses send the missive to Dorne while another brought her the letters received. Several were of no consequence, but one from Alys Karstark detailing the ranging party’s progress with their mission was a relief. Malora read it quickly, grateful that Alys had learned the art of writing concisely while maintaining the proper level of detail in her reports. She had been another difficult adjustment to make, and a Stark cousin at that. Of course, Alys had not been nearly as bad as Sansa, but still. She hadn’t been through the same experiences. 

A bell rang out on the ground, and Malora looked up, curious. A stewardess jogged up from the floor below, grinning. “They’re coming down!” 

Malora smiled back tightly, a tension she hadn’t noticed uncoiling in her chest. She turned to the others, all bouncing on the balls of their feet and looking up at the wall in anticipation of the return of the trapped Sisters. 

“Go on, I’ll catch up with you,” Malora said, and before she finished they had run off, leaving her among the feathers and snow. Shaking her head, Malora rolled the letter back up and slipped it into her sleeve, stopping long enough to return the birds to their proper cages and locking them up tight before heading down herself. 

When she arrived, most of the Sisterhood was already in the courtyard, crowding each other and straining to see the formerly broken winch lift make its way back down from being stuck. Malora glanced up at it and then located the Lord Commander, standing above them on the balcony, arms spread wide along the railing and eyes turned upward. The Sisters moved out of Malora’s way as she passed, making space and filling it up again in a moment. Obara didn't seem to notice her approach, but addressed her before she settled into her place. 

“The builders did good work,” she said, still not looking away from the lift, which had almost reached the ground. 

“Yes,” Malora agreed, searching for Mya Stone in the crowd. With Obara’s support she had seen to it that the builders had advanced knowledge if not advanced tools. It was no surprise that they should do such efficient work. 

Obara straightened and clapped her hands together as the lift touched down. “Ah! Here we are.” 

There was a great cheer as the first group of formerly trapped Sisters exited the lift. Malora smiled, still absently looking for Mya, but caught sight of Sansa instead, standing almost at the other side of the training ground, half hidden under the balcony. She continued to observe Sansa watching the proceedings, to see all the others celebrating their return. Sansa looked small and wan, but as the Sisters poured out and begin to rejoin the ranks, Malora saw her press a hand to her chest, visibly touched.

Of course, Obara caught Malora looking where no one else was. 

She leaned over to Malora’s ear. “What do you think?” 

“As I said.” Malora snorted, looking away from the Stark girl. “She’s useless.”

“But?” 

Malora glanced back, ignoring the smirk in her Commander’s voice. She watched as Sansa hovered at the edges of the group, eyes wide and open, and remained silent.


	4. The New Queen

The gardens at the Red Keep were both vast and beautiful. Row upon row of flower beds, gentle curves in the paths, seemingly natural views of the city below. A cultivated elegance, as artificial as it was wonderful. 

They were also, Margaery mused to herself, a perfect representation of her house. Growing strong, enduring through beauty, through the unassuming nature of battles fought indirectly. In a fit of rage, Cersei had outright ordered all yellow roses ripped out and replaced by more so-called ‘modern’ blooms, but she couldn’t change the heart of it all. 

Margaery ran her fingers along to petals of a small bloom, smiling. As much as Cersei attempted to exert her will on the gardens, to shape them for her own purposes, it would always be a pointless exercise. She would never understand them, not the beauty and certainly not the subtlety. Lions didn’t belong in gardens. They belonged out in the wild, on the hunt, leading the charge. It was the true tragedy of her mother in law, that she would never really love what she sought to control. 

The garden, and the castle it held up, was always meant to be Margaery's and hers alone. 

Until that time, Margaery had taken to slipping away from castle life with a handful of ladies maids to spend time among the flowers and meticulously trimmed trees, either with a book or without for quiet reflection. Her favorite view came from a lovely little spot carved into a wall that separated two levels of the western garden. 

The stone seat was well worn, almost soft to the touch. The ivy crawling up the wall was enchanting. The lip at the top of the wall prevented people who stood at the top of it from seeing her, which was especially interesting because it just so happened that the overlook directly above was one of her mother in law’s favorite spots as well, most likely because it afforded a striking view of the entire city and the outward facing doors of the Red Keep itself, so she could monitor who came and went. 

Margaery smiled to herself. They really were very similar women, no matter what Cersei said. 

She absently flipped a page of her boring novel and breathed quietly, her eyes set on a particular stretch of path to her right where the wall curved. Seline, one of her closest ladies maids, was sitting along that stretch of wall, ready to drop a handkerchief off the side if she saw something worth moving Margaery for. For example, Cersei Lannister noticing her presence. 

At the moment, she suspected that she didn’t have to be particularly concerned, considering how invested the former Queen was in her current conversation. 

“Yes, I’m sure,” Cercei hissed. “I just received word today. She found her way to the Wall, the little minx.” 

“She must have had help,” a man responded, and Margaery was fairly sure it was her brother Jaime, though he had been a prisoner of war for almost the entire time Margaery had lived in the Capitol and she didn’t know him as well. An oversight, but a project for another time. 

The Queen scoffed. “Of course she had help, there’s no way that she managed to run all the way to the Wall by herself.” 

“The Starks have proven themselves more difficult to remove than we originally anticipated.” 

“Tell that to Ned Stark’s head.” 

Jaime hummed. “I would, but as I understand it is no longer here.” 

“No, we sent it to his river urchin of a wife. I don’t think it did her much good.” 

There was a long moment of silence. Margaery tilted her head, picturing them standing side by side, looking out over the city. The false veneer of peace and quiet staring back at them, a facade that might be thrown down at any moment. Margaery had stood there once, just to get the look of it, but had quickly vacated the spot. She hadn’t wanted Cercei to hear that Margaery was encroaching on her territory in such a direct way. It might have made her pick a new, less convenient spot, or worse, become more vigilant about this one. 

“Catelyn could have made it all the way to the Wall by herself,” Jaime commented, his tone overly casual. 

Cercei scoffed. “Be serious, please.” 

“Oh I am, you didn’t see the wartime wife I saw. She was a force to be reckoned with.” 

“Well Sansa doesn’t have it.” 

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. You don’t know her like I do,” Cersei threw his own words back in his face. “She’s a weak little bird out of her cage.”

She paused, obviously turning over her own words in her mind. Jaime stayed out of her way. It was interesting, the dynamic they had, like water over stone, quick to turn into a whirlpool but fundamentally compatible. It made Margaery wonder if the rumours were true after all. 

Cersei let out a rumble like a growl, far from the courtly sounds she allowed herself when she knew Margaery was listening. “She must have had help. I want that person found after we retrieve her.” 

“Pardon?” Jaime asked, clearly amused. Margaery smirked, unable to imagine anyone else speaking to the former Queen like that and getting away with it. 

“You heard me,” Cersei said, a purr rather than a growl now. “I’m going to send someone to get her back. She has to answer for her part in my son’s death.” 

“We have no right to interfere with the Watch.” 

“We have every right.” 

“Not within the law,” Jamie answered, a bit of frustration leaking into his tone. “Do you really want to start another war? How many will that be?”

“The Sand Snake will bend to our will. What’s one Stark against the losses we could do them? As I understand it they don’t have the resources to wage a war over one useless noble woman.” 

“Do we? When Snakes bend they bite.” 

“Let Obara do her worst.” 

“It was a serious question. I don’t believe we have the men to waste on-”

“It’s not a waste.” The venom in her voice could melt stone. “This is my son we are-”

“He is gone, so is Sansa. They are lost to us. You have to-”

Cercei let out a frustrated cry that immediately turned into a slight gasp. Moments later a wine glass shattered three feet away from Margaery’s feet and she jumped, her hand flying to her throat. Thankfully, she had not screamed, but her heart pounded so loudly in her ears she could barely hear what they said next. 

Jaime broke the silence first. “Cersei-”

“This is about our family. Our-” He shushed her, and Margaery's eyebrows flew up. 

“We can’t afford to stretch ourselves too thin. You already have men out searching for Tyrion, and the Stark girl isn’t going anywhere. We need to play the long game.”

“I’m sick of games.” 

“Even so.” 

The Queen hummed, lapsing off into deep, irritated silence. Margaery waited, her heart rate gradually climbing down from the pace of a galloping horse, and was rewarded. It seemed that Jaime couldn’t let his sister stay angry for long. 

“Do you remember that night in June, almost-” 

Cersei’s laugh cut him off, a fond, embarrassed sound. It was the most human, the most unguarded, Margaery had ever heard her. “Of course I do.” 

“You were ready to run off and join the Watch.” 

“I might have done anything to spite father at that point, it’s true.” 

“You would have been Lord Commander in a matter of years,” he purred, apparently familiar with the true path to Cersei's heart. Power. 

Margaery smirked and leaned her head back against the stone. 

“I’d certainly be the Lord Commander now, and for what? To be the Queen of ice and snow?” 

“Better to be the Queen of the seven kingdoms.” 

“You’re right, is that what you want to hear?” 

“It’s what I wanted to hear then, and all I got was a black eyes for my trouble.” 

Cercei laughed, a short, nasty sound that Ser Jaime apparently liked, because he imitated her, an exact copy only several shades darker. Two birds of a feather, born from the same nest. “Father was furious.” 

“Not that it made much of a change.” 

They lapsed into silence again, the ghosts of the castle drifting in their direction. Margaery shivered against the stone. The murder of a man within the castle, by his own son, no less. 

“What about that beast of a woman you brought home with you?” 

“Brienne,” Jaime said, in the tone that people used when asked a question they’d already answered a million times before. “What about her.” 

“She seems a perfect candidate for the Wall, is all. Might have saved herself a lot of trouble.” 

“To be fair, she is rather adept at getting herself out of trouble.” 

The Queen hummed, a low, flat sound. “She never wanted to go.” 

“I don’t know, we never discussed it.” 

“If she wanted to be there, she would be.” 

“Most likely, yes.” 

“I stayed for you, you know.” 

Silence, the kind that held secrets done in movement, in looks. Margaery waited, but they did not speak again. The sun crept down the horizon, lighting up the flowers and stone, and Margaery sat still, surrounded by broken glass and caught up in her thoughts. 

***

“Did you have a nice time in the garden, your Grace?” 

Margaery turned her head, still lost in thought. Anna, another of her ladies in waiting, smiled back at her, all poise and charm as they walked through the castle. “Yes, I suppose it was rather peaceful.” 

Anna hummed goodnaturedly, playing her role with the precision of an actor trained from birth, which she was. Margaery didn't respond, moving her feet and nodding to those that pass, her own training just as impeccable. They passed Jaime Lannister on the way, hard faced and sharp eyed. His golden hand glinted in the light. He blinked at Margaery as she walked by, separate from her in every definable way. As they moved on, she still felt his eyes on her back, assessing. 

She smiled her way through a lunch and a meeting with her new future husband, but all the while her mind was far to the North, up with the ice and snow. With Sansa Stark, strange as it seemed. A structure thousands of years old, keeping back the monsters. Margaery had never even seen snow. 

If Tommen was aware of the news, he didn’t show it. Margaery doubted that he even remembered much about Sansa, except for the vented frustrations of his much older family members. And he might have heard whispers that she killed his big brother. 

Margaery curled her fingers around Ser Pounce, feeling the softness. She had never even considered the wall. Why would she? 

“Margaery?” 

She blinked and saw Tommen staring up at her, all of nine years old and doe-eyed, frowning at the lack of attention, two squirming kittens in his hands. Instantly, she smiled, dazzling him. “Yes my love?” 

Tommen smiled back, and she rans her fingers through his hair, silky smooth and so blond that it was almost white. The King of the Seven Kingdoms brightened and continued telling her about all the state business he was allowed to know about, which did not amount to much. Margaery nodded along, keeping her focus this time. It was important that he feel supported by her, even now. Especially now. 

Neither of them belonged in cold places. 

The rest of the meeting was all brightness and smiles, as it should be, and she left feeling nice, if a little drained from the glorified babysitting. 

“What shall I wear to dinner tonight?” Margaery mused once she arrived back in her rooms, picking through her dresses. At her back, a gaggle of girls fluttered about, some at her side giving suggestions, some near the windows, some cleaning. A mix of maids and ladies and social climbers. Tedious. 

“How about the blue?”

“The royal blue?” 

“The green.” 

“No, the-” 

Margaery cleared her throat. “How about you three,” she said meaningfully, nodding to her inner circle, “model them for me? We can judge.” 

Abigail all but danced forward. “What shall we do if nothing is satisfactory?” 

“Well then I suppose I’ll need a new wardrobe,” Margaery responded, her perfect smile a little tense. 

As though on cue, a hand slid over her arm, smooth and firm. Margaery glanced over to see Missy smiling at her, all promise. 

“Actually,” Margaery said, looking back. “I changed my mind.” 

Disappointment rang out in short, performative sighs and minor complaints. She ignored them, passing Missy a dress. Not her best, but certainly the easiest to remove. Missy smirked at her, and stripped out of her own without so much as a blink as the door shut behind the rejected ones. 

“I hate to admit it, but you have better breasts than me.” Margaery said, tracing the upper swell of her cleavage with a fingertip and throwing in a coy smile for good measure. 

Missy smiled back and stepped forward, putting the glorious breast in question in full contact with Margaery's hand. Not her best companion, nor the smartest, but by far the most loyal. Ever since Margaery caught her with a visiting handmaiden and helped them both carry on the affair, her devotion had deepened. It helped that Margaery promised to keep her in her service as long as she was a Lady, and keep her out of the beds of any men that might come sniffing around. Missy had all but jumped into her arms, and would sooner cut one off than betray her. 

Humming, Margaery slid her hand around to the side of Missy’s ribs, feeling the movement of her breath. “What are we feeling today?” 

“Whatever we want,” Missy whispered back, conspiratorially. Not smart, no, but savvy. 

Margaery smirked and pulled her forward, hooking her arms all the way around her back as she went to bring her in close. Missy tipped her chin up, not quite as tall, nowhere near as beautiful, but pretty, and willing, and nice with her hands. 

Later, when they’d sated themselves and curled up together in the setting sun, she relaxed. Margaery hummed a nothing tume, her hands in Missy’s ridiculous yellow red hair, and thought about Sansa again. 

She remembered flirting with her while Sansa remained ostentatiously oblivious. It was to the point that Margaery at first suspected Sansa was pretending. Her ladies in waiting smirked behind their fans, and onlookers sent them speculative glances. But Sansa seemed to have no idea. She was innocent, even after everything. 

“Did you hear about Sansa Stark?” Margaery asked, casually, still pulling Missy’s hair through her fingers. 

Missy hummed, her eyes still shut and her head tipped back. “Probing for information?” 

Margaery smacked her lightly on the bottom and Missy giggled. “Be nice.” 

“I am always very nice to you,” Missy said, and arched into her touch. “But yes, I heard she went to the Wall.”

Margaery rolled her eyes. “Beyond that.” 

“Well I’m no spy master,” Missy responded lightly, delicately crossing her feet. “But I heard the Queen is angry about it, maybe even enough to do something.” 

“What can she do? The Watch stands apart.” 

“It did,” Missy agreed, mildly. “I wonder how she’s dealing with them all.” 

“The Queen?”

“Sansa. It’s not exactly a closed secret what goes on up there.” 

“Oh,” Margaery laughed, shaking her head. “I’m sure it’s not like that.” 

“No? Just because she turned you down-” 

“She did not turn me down,” Margaery said imperiously. “She never realized what I was offering in the first place.” 

“Well you might have-” 

“I’m tired now, you can go.”

Missy’s mouth shut with an audible snap, and she busied herself with getting dressed and removing herself from the space, professional in all things. Margaery didn’t turn her head when the door closed, tracing her nail around her cuticle, again and again. When she was very young, she would pick at them, rip her nails and skin to shreds. Her grandmother put a stop to that, and now she had perfect hands. 

She put hae hands in her lap and tried to imagine Sansa, the beautiful, naive winter flower, as a Sister. It was difficult to even picture it. But the more she considered it, the easier the image formed. After all, the North was her home. She was little more than a child when Margaery met her, innocent in a way Margaery was never allowed to be.

Maybe the reason she was so meek and lost was because she was suffocating from the heat. Margaery rolled onto her back and he pictured Sansa in boiled leather with a wolf embroidered on the breast, howling up towards her face. Margaery tilted her head, smiling at it, and hauled herself up to get ready for dinner. 

She heard a story once about Sansa’s journey south. It was a story about a mean little boy, an argument gone out of hand, and wolf, unfairly killed. But Sansa survived. 

Margaery slipped a simple dress over her head and went to her balcony, tipped her face back into the light of the moon. 

“I’ll remember you too.”


End file.
